


Strife: The Sequel

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Dirk has his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strife: The Sequel

You’ve made yourself comfortable almost an hour ago, half watching an episode of Robot Wars on DVD and half watching Dave as he and John gather all the sheets in the apartment and carry them into Dave’s room.

You have no idea what they’re doing, but you make a mental note to destroy whatever it is later on.

“Dirk.”

You glance over at Jake who’s been calling your name off and on for the past five minutes. You answered him the first couple of times, but his reply was always the same. Now you try your best to ignore him each time he calls you, the sound of his voice drowning out the announcer and causing you to miss whatever was said.

“Dirk,” Jake says again. “I’m  _bored_. Let’s do something. This robotics show is unbelievably vapid.”

“Later,” you say. “I’m trying to watch.”

“They’re re-runs,” Jake exclaims, throwing his hands in the air to emphasize his unnecessary outburst. “And not only are they re-runs, you’ve seen them all at  _least_ three times. It’s honestly quite pathetic how enthralled you get over seeing metal smashing against metal. I’d go so far as to say that you may even be getting your jollies from it.”

“Jake.”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I will most certainly  _not_  shut up,” Jake says. “Do you know what types of adventures I could be getting on with? I’m a busy man, Dirk. I shouldn’t be wasting precious adventuring time on pointless robots that a couple of dorkos conjured up in the wee hours of the morning down in the mother’s dust-riddled basements.”

“Dorkos?”

“Yes, that’s right,  _dorkos_.”

“Whatever you say, bro.” You lean back against the couch and finally give your full attention to Robot Wars.

“Damn it, Dirk.” Jake stands up and glares at you. His hands are balled into fists, which rest against either side of his hips. “As your paramour, I demand that you turn off this balderdash and engage in a gentlemanly round of fisticuffs with me.”

“Not interested.”

“Fine,” Jake grits out. He leans against the arm of the sofa and glances down at his hand, observing his fingernails in what you assume to be a nonchalant manner.

He looks like an idiot.

“You know, Dirk,” Jake says. He picks up the empty Robot Wars DVD case. “I wonder if watching this humdrum nerd show helps take the sting out of the fact that you got your ass completely handed to you two weeks ago.”

_Okay, so he’s going there tonight._

Every part of you wants to respond to that, to protest that if anything, what happened two weeks ago was merely a tie. Instead, you stay silent , pressing your lips together tightly, your tongue firm against the roof of your mouth.

_It no longer tastes like metal._

“Though, I suppose if anything stings, it would be your cheek, wouldn’t it, old chum? That was quite the devil of a smack, wasn’t it? Sometimes I swear my hand still tingles from it. Could it possibly be nerve damage, I wonder. What do you think, Dirk?”

You know he’s just trying to provoke you.

_And it’s working._

“Can’t win them all,” you say, and you flex your fingers, your knuckles popping from your fist being balled too tightly.

“Yes, but I’ve never quite seem someone lose so  _miserably_ ,” Jake says. “I remember thinking, what a poor fellow. Maybe I should go easy on him.”

“Jake…”

“But I must admit, I took a gargantuan amount of pleasure seeing your lips wrapped about my barrel like the common strumpet.”

You’re on your feet in half a second, Robot Wars all but forgotten.

“Alright,” you say. “You wanna’ go, bro? Scrums or whatever bullshit you like to call it? Is that what you’re baiting me for?”

“My, my, aren’t you quite the firecracker now, Strider?”

“No more talking,” you say. “Strife. Now.”

“Now, you’re speaking my language,” Jake says, and he grins at you, green eyes wicked and filled with all types of promised mischief.

It’s been two weeks and he has yet to let you live down  _that_  strife, the one where you ended up on the floor, bloody and mouth fucked by a gun and you fucking _liked_  it. Two weeks of what Jake thinks are clever remarks— though you admit, he’s burnt you a couple of times tonight. Two weeks of wanting to pay him back.

Two weeks is long enough.

_Tonight is the night._

“Would you like to get your sword?” Jake asks, taunting you with that little smirk of his that makes you want to bite his bottom lip and then soothe it with your tongue.

“Don’t need it.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I don’t need a sword to wreck your shit.”

“Then come at me, bro,” Jake says.

“You sound like a douche.”

“What’s that, Strider? It’s hard to understand you when your mouth isn’t full of metal.”

Jake dodges the swing you take at him, laughing, amused that he’s riled you up to the point where you’d attempt to strike first.

“I’ll say, I’m in great form today, wouldn’t you agree, Dirk?”

Yes, you would, but of course you’d never admit that.

You swing at him again and your fist barely connects with his shoulder. You’re not sure whether you’re proud or irritated with how well he’s gotten at these ridiculous strifes over the years. He’s quicker now, much more alert.

You attempt a speedy kick at him and he blocks it, wags his finger at you, and shoves your foot back to the floor.

_He still watches his surroundings._

“What’s wrong, Dirk?” Jake says. “Did Cyborg Wars not teach you how to properly participate in scrums?”

“It’s  _Robot_  Wars,” you reply and kick again, this time, actually managing to connect your foot with his thigh.

“Robot, cyborg, android. What the devil dickens does it make? What’s important is—” He doesn’t finish his statement because he’s too busy kicking up a shirt lying on the floor in front of him, sending it in your direction, using it to distract you.

_It works._

When you knock the shirt away from hitting you in the face, you end up staring at the pointy blade of one of a sword that you mostly use for decorative purposes. Jake snatched it off the wall, revealing exactly how much dust can accumulate inside your apartment.

_You and Dave should probably clean more often._

“I bet you wish you hadn’t opted out for that sword now, hm, Strider? You’re just off your game, chum.”

Jake steps forward and you step back. You glance around, looking for a nearby object to defend yourself with.

_You come up with nothing._

“Ready to admit defeat?”

“I guess so” you say.

“Shake?”

You nod your head and Jake hesitantly puts down the sword. When he approaches you and you don’t try anything, he smiles.

“See, Strider. Wasn’t that better than some awful robot show? A good strife was what we both needed.” He leans forward and takes your hand, giving it a firm shake. Once you’re done shaking hands, he looks down at the sword and frowns. “I should probably put this back,” he says as an afterthought.

You wait patiently for him to put the sword back in its place before gripping your belt buckle. The large metal clip swings out and you get a firm grip on it and slide the belt out of each loop with ease. You flick your wrist, cracking the belt through the air where it smacks against Jake’s ass, almost immediately after he finishes hanging the sword.

“Ahh! Dirk!” He yells at you, shocked and annoyed, his hand rubbing his ass and his teeth grit closely together, hissing in pain.

“Something wrong, English?” You say. When he reaches for the sword once more, you use the belt again to smack against his wrist. The sound almost makes  _you_ wince.

“That bloody hurts!”

“Not my problem.”

You strike at Jake again, the belt cracking loud and missing as he takes off, running down the hall. You’re right behind him, intent on making him pay for being a general disturbance to your day of relaxation.

Jake bursts into your bedroom and clampers over the bed. You watch as he extends his arm, reaching over the edge for your sword, which you think is a stupid move on his part.

_His gun is sitting right on top of your bookshelf._

“Back up, Strider, or I’ll be forced to—”

“Forced to what?” You ask, the gun pointing down at Jake as he stares up at you, wide eyed, an expression of sheer terror on his face.

“Dirk…”

“Drop the sword,” you say and Jake opens his hand almost instantly. The sword falls onto the floor with a thunk and you watch as his eyes drift from your eyes to the gun.

“Dirk…”

“What was it that you said to me during our last strife?” You ask Jake. “Oh, yeah. _You_ suck.”

“Now wait a minute, Strider—”

“Those lips aren’t saying anything I want to hear, English. Open up.”

“Dirk—”

“Open. Your. Mouth.”

Jake hesitates for a second before licking his lips and opening his mouth wide. You take your time sliding the gun inside, glancing up at him to make sure he’s actually okay with this crazy shit, but the look in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks tells you that he’s definitely fine with what’s currently taking place.

You slide the gun in and out of his mouth, groaning softly at his expression and the way he arches his back and raises his hips. He moans around the gun when you use your free hand to reach down and unfasten his belt along with the button of those ridiculously short shorts he’s wearing.

_Your cock twitches at the sound of those shorts being unzipped._

You can’t help but smirk when you look down at his underwear and he wags his eyebrows at you because he’s an idiot. You want nothing more than to caress the obvious bulge covered beneath that orange fabric, but he doesn’t deserve that.

Instead, you straddle him, grinding your own cock down against his. You’re still only working with one free hand, but you manage to undo your pants, showing off your own briefs, the color nearly matching the green of Jake’s shirt.

Jake thrusts his hips against yours, his way of silently telling you that he wants more. Your response is to slide your hand into your pants and inside your underwear, fingers gliding against your cock, the soft leather of your glove caresses your abdomen.

You bite down gently on your bottom lip, grinding your hips, panting softly and moaning when Jake moans again and saliva runs down the corner of his mouth.

_Fuck, you have to admit that this is pretty hot._

Pre-cum seeps through fabric, darkening small area of the fabric and makes your fingers slippery and slick. You have to fight to keep your eyes open, the vision in front of you already slightly tinted by your shades.

Your hand is wrapped around your cock now, stroking gingerly, but your mind is on Jake. You want to make sure he’s enjoying himself as much as you are. The gun feels foreign in your hand, nothing like your sword that conforms to your grip so well, but you keep it in Jake’s mouth and continue to make him suck it, the metal bright and solid against his tongue.

“Is this what you wanted?” You ask Jake, not really taunting him, but actually really interesting in finding out the answer. You never know with him.

_He makes you second guess yourself._

There must be a certain expression on your face, one that confuses Jake, and he reaches up and jerks your hand away. You’re startled for a second, not sure what to say or do, wondering if you’ve somehow managed to go too far even though he seemed really into it two seconds ago.

“What’s—”

Before you can finish your question, he takes the gun from you and drops it on the floor. They’re no bullets in it, but he likes to keep it by his side just like you do with your sword.

_You can’t fault him for that._

You open your mouth to speak again, but Jake jerks from under you, forces you off of him, reverses your position so that you’re lying on the bed and he’s over top of you.

“Lube’s in the—”

“Not today, Strider. We don’t need it,” he says and you tilt your glasses down and stare at him because yes, you really fucking  _do_  need it if the two of you are planning on having sex.

It isn’t until he lowers himself down your body, his warm fingers stroking and gently scratching at your thighs, that you realize what he has planned. You gasp when he wraps his lips around your cock, his tongue swirling around the tip before descending even lower.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging and pulling each time he lowers his head, or raises it, hallowing his jaws while you cry out and attempt to shut your legs.

His eyes are open and he stares up at you, watching how you whimper and rock your hips, chasing you when you dig your heels into the mattress and try to scoot backward.

“Let me do you,” you breathe out, pleading with him, wanting to make him feel good, too, but he shakes his head and continues.

_He never once breaks eye contact._

And you realize that look he’s giving you is familiar. It’s the one you give him when you’re sucking him, fucking him… It’s the look you give him when you’re eating dinner together, or talking about movies, or when you strife. It’s the look you give him, that you  _always_  give him, while simultaneously wondering if he notices it, if he even cares.

_And his eyes tell you that he does._

And it feels so fucking good.  

You try again in vain to runaway, but your back presses against the headboard and Jake follows you again, his mouth lowering even further until you only see his nose nestled against your pubic hair. His throat constricts around you and your cry out, your fingers gripping desperately at his hair, yanking at the dark, coarse, strands while your hips violently jerk into the air.

“Jake,” you whimper, frantically trying to pull his head away, but he keeps at it, humming and swallowing around you until you’re shouting and cumming, feeling nothing but wet heat around your cock, greedily sucking down everything and making you moan, incoherent broken words tumbling from your lips.

Your legs tremor, tiny explosive volcanoes of pleasure responsible for how you fuck Jake’s mouth, grinding your cock into it, your hips circling and jerking while you pant and whisper his name crudely decorated with a string of colorful curse words.

He doesn’t pull away until you’re hips have stopped twitching, and when he does, your cock is soft and wet, flopping gently against your stomach.

“Fuck,” you groan, for lack of anything else to say. Sometimes fuck is one of those words that just needs to be said, and you’ll be damn if now is not that time.

“Sorry for being a jerk,” Jake says, his voice weak and slightly hoarse.

“Whatever,” you reply. “I know you can’t really help yourself.”

“I do hope you’ll give me the chance to redeem myself.”

“I know a way you can get the ball rolling.”

Jake looks up at you, curious eyes silently asking you what it is, and promising that they’ll do whatever it takes. He sighs when you tell him your request, but he still gets up, groaning softly as he fastens his shorts and belt.

You want to offer to take care of that for him, but you know he won’t let you.

You watch as Jake leaves your room, your eyes alternating between staring at his ass and the back of his thighs. You listen to his footsteps until they stop and you hear the sound of a door being opened. A few seconds later, your apartment is filled with angry shouts from both Dave and John.

“English, what the fuck?!”

“Dude, Jake, you ruined our fort!”

Jake trudges back into the room a moment later and you almost feel bad for him.

“Just so you know, that was a lovely sheet fort that I’m sure they spent hours working on. Dave looked particularly enraged.”

You pet the spot next to you on the bed and Jake flops down beside you. “I’d say that ball is rolling pretty smoothly,” you say.

“Irons in the fire?” Jake asks you.

“Plenty of them.”

“I can live with that,” Jake says and he rests his head against your thigh and you smile and play with his hair while you enjoy the sounds of Dave’s furious antics in the next room.


End file.
